The Wistful Campus
The summons was printed on heavy, cream-colored stock, the ink still wet and smelling faintly of iron, a bureaucratic scent that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the rot of things. He held it in his left hand, the paper trembling slightly not from fear, but from the damp chill that had seeped into the bones of his coat, while his right hand clutched the silver pocket watch against his...
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